


If I Were Human

by hlmedinfl



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Bad Future Timeline (Fire Emblem), Chrobin - Freeform, M/M, Sexual Content, Slight Off-Screen Gore, but also not a bad one, grima!robin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-04-04 20:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14028219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlmedinfl/pseuds/hlmedinfl
Summary: Ever since the resurrection of Grima, Chrom and the Shepherds have gone into hiding, fighting off wave after wave of Risen invasion. It seems there is no end in sight, until Chrom convinces the others to send him into Plegia, disguised as one of the Risen himself. He intends to save Robin from Grima's influence, but can he truly defeat the Fell Dragon without killing the man he inhabits?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure this idea has been done a hundred times over, but FEH had revived my love for Chrobin angst, and I just couldn't help myself. Anyway, this will probably be a two or three-shot. Thanks for reading.

Tharja's body arches liked a cobra and in a fit of spells and fury, Chrom feels the warmth leave his body. It's like plunging into the rivers of his childhood, the cold seeping into his fingertips, until he was splashing furiously and coming up for air. Emmeryn had always chided him for jumping so high, said that she worried sick every time she saw him falling, but he always found himself returning to the highest rock there was and into the cool waters below despite her protestations. Remembering it now seems strange and cruel, and Chrom is well aware how fate has wrapped him in a thread of steely irony.

"Father?"

Chrom opens his eyes. There's a milky sheen, as if the everything beyond the foreground is just blur of lines and shapes fading in and out, but then Lucina materializes out of the smudge of colors.

"Did it work?" he finds himself asking. There's a stiffness in his legs as he tries to stand up, that is, until he pushes up with his hands and feels the the odd numbness that usually accompanies what Lissa called "pins and needles." But there's no pins and needles now, just a feeling of numbness, as if something isn't quite right.

"Of course it worked," Tharja snaps somewhere just beyond Chrom's line of sight. "I killed you, didn't I?"

It's not until Chrom focuses on her that he starts to believe the truth of her words. The iridescence of her clothing is gone now, and her body seems flat against the background of trees and darkness and night.

Lucina touches his cheek. Chrom can't help but reel away from her; her skin's so hot, it burns. "So it's true," she says, her voice cracking with breathless regret. He knows she would have traded places with him in a heartbeat, but he couldn't bear the thought of that happening.

Her hand stays still in the air for a moment too long. Then she closes it into a fist and brings it to her chest just below her heart. "And this is the only way?"

He wants to reach out and comfort her, but he is afraid to touch her, as if the barest touch of flesh, of warmth, will contaminate him.

"Make no mistake, Lucina. It has to be me," Chrom speaks. His voice is dry and raspy and scrapes against his throat. He remembers the Dragon's Table, how Robin had been able to hold back just enough to allow them to escape. To allow _him_ to escape.

"It's not forever." Tharja comes up beside her. Her voice is snickering and strange, and Chrom realizes it's the closest thing she has to a comforting tone. "Once the magic fades from this spell book, that's it. You'll return to the way you once were—what you call _normal._ " She says the last word with derision.

"And how long until then?"

"A fortnight, give or take."

"That's all I need." Instinctively, Chrom's hand wraps around the hilt of the Falchion. At last, something familiar. He looks at Lucina, at the identical sword on her waist. "Lead the Shepherds in my stead."

She faces him, her mouth a thin line, her eyes steady and serious. "Good luck, Father," she says. He wonders what she's thinking about. Perhaps she is wondering if she'll ever see him again and he hates to do that to her—to deprive her once again of her father.

The sound of wings draws their farewells to a close. "Come, Chrom. We don't have much time," a voice echoes from above the thundering wingbeats.

The pegasus hits the ground and he can just make out the details of Sumia's face. Of the all the remaining Shepherds, Chrom feels the worst for Sumia. Living on the run has hardened her.Her hair is unbrushed and has lost its sheen. Her eyes look frightened and cautious. He wonders if she thinks of Cordelia, shot out of the sky on a scouting mission, and wishes he didn't have to give her any more heartbreak. He shoots one look back at Lucina and mounts the beast. 

The night air rushes past as the pegasus flies upward. Chrom can't feel the cold, but he can feel Sumia shiver from time to time and regrets that he has no warmth to offer her.

"We'll make it to the border just before dawn at this rate." Sumia's voice ghosts past and he can just barely make it out. Below them, tree tops become plains and gullies. Every now and then, Chrom bears witness to the ruins of villages. Ahead of them, the Western mountains loom and beyond that the red hue of Plegia.

The sun is just peaking above the horizon by the time they touch down on Plegian soil. A pink sky wraps around the horizon, like a precursor to the reddish sky beyond it. Sumia's pegasus is breathing deeply, a bellowing sound that Chrom can see as it expands its ribcage. Even Sumia seems drained from the long ride. She sits on the ground, head sunken, tension rolling off of her in waves. Chrom surveys the rocky terrain, accutley aware that enemies could be all around them.

"Promise me something Chrom." Even though she's talking to him, Sumia's gaze is far off. The red hue of the horizon dyes everything around them red, and her eyes burn coppery in the light. "Promise me you'll come back."

Once upon a time, he wouldn't have hesitated to tell her he would. But that time seems like ages ago now. He can't—won't—promise her anything now, because he is afraid even the slightest blow might break her entirely.

"Naga willing," he says.

"…not here yet," he catches Sumia say listlessly. He almost asks her what she means, but then a black set of wings is bearing down on their position and he is unsheathing the Falchion.

"No, wait!" Sumia shouts as the beast of a pegasus unfurls its wings. The blurry rider looks familiar as she dismounts, and Chrom can't help but reach for the Falchion the second time in so many minutes.

"Aversa?"

"My," she says as she looks Chrom over, "so that Plegian mage of yours does know her stuff." She sounds as self-assured as she always has, but there's a weariness in the way she walks, a hesitation that he hadn't noticed before.

"Aversa made me swear not to tell anyone she's switched sounds, not even you…" Sumia's eyes beg for forgiveness.

"Switched sides?" He says in disbelief. He had thought her dead.

"It's true." She gives a half-smile. "I'll guide you to Plegia, but the rest is up to you." He has never considered her pretty. Sadistic and as mad as any Grimleal, maybe, but never pretty. But her expression is soft now, as if the weariness has cut away her harshness. She looks a little pretty, and a little sad, too.

"Quickly now," she says as she taps the saddle behind her. Chrom turns to Sumia once more, as if expecting a smile—anything—and only finds the same thin-lipped determination as Lucina.

"Safe journey," she says.

Before long, Chrom is in the air again, looking over the spot where Sumia and her pegasus are.

"You're probably wondering why I agreed to this, aren't you?" Aversa's voice cuts through the air. It is much louder than Sumia's was.

He can't answer her. There's so many questions running through his head that hers catches him off guard.

"Well, let's just say I learned the truth about where I come from. I…" she starts, but then stops herself, and Chrom wonders if it's black magic that makes her voice so easy to hear as it brushes past in the wind. "I can't forgive what was done to me." There is the familiar hatred in her voice, but this time it's not directed at him. This time he can almost feel the shape of it as it burns within her.

It seems like a long time before they finally reach the their destination. Everything is a wasteland, died in crimson and purple hues. It would almost be beautiful, except Chrom thinks enough have perished to even color the sky with their blood.

Finally, in the distance, he sees the castle, and the ghostly form of Grima curled up around it. Aversa pushes forward, as if this is all just routine. Below them, Plegia is a warren of Risen and Grimleal and citizens hopelessly trapped in the middle. The city seems to operate as it always has, but there is an eerie sense of calm. He wonders what the townspeople must think about this, about the dragon in their city and the Risen among their ranks.

Before he can focus on any one of them in particular, they touch down at the foot of the castle. Just behind them is the rock that Emm jumped from and Chrom cannot bear to turn back. He moves on as Aversa leads. He feels Grima's power radiating from every part of the castle, like the vibration of a bee hive. Just when he thinks the dragon's figure will fade, it comes back with blaring intensity, and waves of panic echo down Chrom's spine. They pass a flock of Grimleal pilgrims prone on the steps.

"Will they sacrifice themselves to the Fell Dragon, too?" he asks.

"If they are found are found worthy," Aversa says without a hint of pity.

At last, they make it to the cool, dark opening of the castle. There are no doors, just a wide maw of an entrance. Aversa moves in swiftly. There are no guards, and Chrom reasons that no reasonable person would infiltrate a castle with a Fell Dragon wrapped around it.

Good thing he was never reasonable.

At the end of the hall sits the dragon itself in a throne of gnarled trees. Chrom needs to remind himself that this isn't _his_ Robin. Grima has turned his features into a sinister smirk and his eyes glow a harsh red even in the dim light.

"Oh, Divine Dragon," Aversa intones, "I have found the one you seek."

Nothing happens. Grima's face does not react, as if he is in a trance. Chrom feels the breath leave him. It has been months since he last saw Robin. His first instinct to run to him, to ask him everything is all right. But he cannot. He must hold back. And that is so hard to do.

Then, slowly, recognition dawns across into the figure's features.

"I knew it was you. I could smell your scent from leagues away," Grima says, only he says it with Robin's voice, not that cacophony of steel and dragon breath that is his tongue.

"The battle at the Dragon's Table," Chrom speaks, hoping he can lie to something as powerful as a god, "the wound was mortal… I've wandered the land all this time… looking for you…"

Grima listens, and a small smile creeps upon his face. "And so you've come back to me?"

"Where else would I go?" Chrom asks, as if challenging him.

"Chrom…" Grima descends the throne. His movements are just like Robin's were; measured and thoughtful, as if every step is a tactical advance, a battle waiting to begin. For a moment, Chrom can almost trick himself into believing that it _is_ Robin. Their gestures are nearly the same. The way they say his name is nearly the same. That look he gives him, even through red eyes, is nearly identical to his Robin. Then Grima looks away.

" _You_ may leave now," he says to Aversa, as if annoyed.

She doesn't stick around long, but she backs up slowly, as if she can never show the dragon her back. "If it pleases you, my liege, please grant my request." She says before melting into the shadows.

And then she is gone, and Chrom is left with Grima. He smiles slightly, and his eyes seem to grow redder. He takes a single step closer, and then another, and lifts a hand to Chrom's face. Chrom thinks the touch will seer him again, just like Lucina's did, but Grima's touch is different. It feels warm, just like flesh should feel like. Chrom hesitates for a moment, thinks the spell has stopped working, but Grima does not seem to notice any difference.

"I would have buried your grave with my own hands," Grima says. He looks into those depthless, red eyes, and in that instant, Chrom can feel the lightening bolt penetrate his side.

 _It hurts. Tearing through flesh and organs, splitting his side in fire and wicked pain. He remembers gasping for breath and feeling blood gurgle into his throat instead. He feels the darkness seeping in, the fear and madness condensing into a peaceful feeling that is even more unnerving._ Just like dying.

It's gone in another instant, and Grima is still in front of him, looking deeply into his eyes. "But the Shepherds took you away from me."

"It must have been the magic of the Dragon's Table," Chrom says, hoping in some way that his lie is enough to fool a god. "Its power must have _turned_ me."

Grima's eyes narrow, and his hand falls, and Chrom thinks he has ruined everything. "For all the good the Dragon's Table will do me now. The emblem and stones have been scattered to the four corners of the earth! And those vile humans are to blame!" As Grima's voice rises, the castle begins to shake. The dark dragon screams its metallic cry and the false eyes on Robin's cheeks appear. It's just for a moment, but in that moment Chrom can feel all the hatred Grima holds for the world, all the loathing and disgust he has for humanity.

It feels like endless darkness.

Then the shaking subsides and Grima staggers on his feet. He holds his head in his hand and clutches at his stomach. "Curse this weak body," he says as he starts to fall.

"Robin!" Chrom is there before he hits the ground. Grima is surprisingly light in his arms and he doesn't struggle or protest.

"Robin?" Grima says breathlessly against Chrom's chest. He looks up at him. "Yes… that was what you called me."

"Shall I call you Grima?" Chrom asks. His voice no longer rasps. It sounds natural. It sounds like _his_.

Grima rights himself and leanss out of Chrom's arms to regain his balance. "Call me what you wish."

So Grima is still weak. It would be so easy, Chrom knows, to just drive the Falchion into Grima's heart. But his hand never reaches for the hilt. He can't, not now. Not while Grima still holds memories of Robin, not while Robin is still in there, fighting. He hopes beyond hope that Robin will come back to his senses, but it has been half a year and the Fell Dragon still holds control of Plegia and Ylisse is in its death throes from raids.

"Tell me what it is you need, Robin," Chrom says.

Grima's eyes widen a bit, as if he has misheard him.

Chrom thinks quickly. He must regain Grima's trust. He must play this game until its conclusion. "You—when you woke up in that field—you joined the Shepherds without any hesitation," Chrom finds himself saying. "You became our tactician. You led us into battle after battle and expected nothing in return. Now," he says, and lowers himself before the dragon, before his friend, and it feels so natural, so honest. "I'll offer myself to you. You were loyal to me in life, and I shall be loyal to you in death."

"Oh, Chrom." A slight smile plays upon Grima's face. It is unnerving, because it is the exact thing Robin would have done. "You were always so honorable. So loyal. Even now…"

Robin looks ahead and Chrom wonders if he sees what Grima—the one wrapped around the castle—sees. "Very well," he says. "I shall let you serve me."

Grima leads him back to the steps outside of the castle. From so far up, the Plegians look like ants, and it is no small stretch to wonder why the Plegians built a castle so far away from the populace in the first place.

"I have no patience to govern humans," Grima says. "Their lives mean nothing to me. And yet…" Chrom notices the slightest change in his voice, as if Robin is trying to fight through. "Plegia cannot fall until the fire emblem is restored. Will you act as their king in my stead?" Then his voice turns to contempt once again. "Miserable worms. All they know is kings, so a king they shall have."

"Of course, Robin." Chrom watches him take a few steps forward. He can also feel the dragon's gaze on him, its many eyes staring down at him. But it does not seem like a vicious gaze, Chrom realizes. It feels indecisive. It seems curious.

"Hear me!" Grima sounds, his voice echoing far and wide, and the dots of people freeze in place. "The Fallen Exalt of Ylisse has returned. He has sworn his loyalty to me and shall be your king. Disobey him and perish!"

Chrom is too far away to see their expressions. He wonders how the people will react to their Ylissian King, and knows that it is probably no worse than being subject to a Fallen God.

He follows Grima back into the palace, back into its emptiness, and Grima sits upon his throne and waits. And waits.

It is not long before Validar enters. At first Chrom thinks the sorcerer is just another shadow, until that shadow grows arms and legs and a hideous smile.

"My liege!" He begins by bending the knee, not even sparing a glance in Chrom's direction. "I heard your proclamation."

"It would be blasphemy not to hear it," Grima says.

"And so it is true." Validar looks straight at Chrom, as if he is looking at an artifact or a weapon, and not a human being. Perhaps, as a Risen, he isn't one. "The Exalt has fallen."

"Yes, he shall be King of Plegia henceforth."

"You are infinitely wise, Fell Dragon, but I have come to ask why you have given the throne to… a…" Validar's hands start to writhe, as if he cannot find the right word. He finally settles on, "Foreigner."

"And I thought," Grima says, his eyes glowing a bright, unearthly scarlet, "you would ask why he has taken that title from _you_ , Fell Blood."

"Have I not pleased you, my liege?" Validar's groveling sickens Chrom. "Have I not given you new life, a new body—"

"You've trapped me in this body." Grima looks at his hands. "You've condemned me to live like a wriggling worm."

"I have only been loyal to you!" It is strange, but Chrom hears true concern in Validar's voice. True pity. "I have given you everything, my life, my child's life."

"Yes, and its soul, too," Grima says darkly. "Shall I tell you how I devoured it? The first meal I had in centuries." He lets the words hang in the air, and when Chrom looks to Validar, he is not disturbed in the least. "It tasted like dirt."

Validar's mouth slackens, from self-assured to aghast. "B-but," he starts to say.

"Consider this my thanks," Grima says.

There is a crunching sound as Validar's body starts to float in the air. "M-my liege—" Validar never finishes his sentence as his body bends impossibly back. Blood erupts from his mouth as the heels of his feet touch the back of his head. It is too much for Chrom to watch. He closes his eyes and only opens them when he hears the wet thunk of the body hitting the ground.

He had only ever felt contempt for Validar, but Chrom feels no joy at the sight of the mangled corpse. He tries to ignore it.

Grima clutches at his stomach when it is over. He keels over, as if he is in pain.

"Robin?" Chrom goes to him. There is true pain in his face.

"Curse this body…" he struggles to say. "Curse it to oblivion." The temptation is too great not to hold the man in his arms. He rushes to him and pulls Grima in; he does not fight back. Chrom hears the sound of Grima's breathing and the warmth of this body.

"How long has this been happening?" he asks. "How long have you been collapsing like this?"

Grima shakes his head. "There is a pain in my stomach. Like it is burning."

"Have you been eaten anything?" Chrom asks.

"The souls of the Grimleal are enough to sustain me… for now." He breathes heavily.

"No," Chrom says, a little too loudly and forcibly. It takes everything he has to keep himself in check. "I mean… food. The kind that humans eat."

"Ah, yes, that." Grima brings a finger to his lips. "I eat when it is convenient, I suppose." He looks at Validar's mangled corpse as if it were a speck of dirt on cleanly washed linen.

"When was the last time?"

"Several days ago, perhaps."

Chrom shakes his head. "We must find you something to eat immediately." And someone to clean this mess up.

Cautiously, he leads Grima to the great entrance of the castle once more.

"Where are you taking me?" Grima demands, but allows Chrom to guide him down the steps.

"To get you something to eat," Chrom responds brightly.

By the time they make it down into the streets, Chrom has almost gotten used to the reddish light. Grima walks beside him, scowling at anything that so much that looks in his directions. The locals bow as they pass, some seemingly wanting to bury themselves in the dirt and dusty streets.

Under Gangrel, the Plegian capital was still recognizable as a town. Now it is a labyrinthian ruin of Grimleal and Risen and common Pleglians smashed together under a perpetually blood-dyed sky.

"You there," Chrom calls to a citizen who seems normal enough. "Where is the market?"

The citizen hisses and Chrom notices his dead, glowing eyes.

How many Risen are in this city? Chrom wonders. How can the citizens go on with their lives while harboring an army of the undead?

At last they find a stall that sells something resembling meat. They are merely dried strips, hanging from a hook, but Chrom reasons it will have to do. Grima has stayed mostly silent, his expression vacillating from distrust to disgust. The shopkeeper seems surprised when Chrom hands him a bit of coin, and keeps his head lowered the whole time.

"Eat this." Chrom comes away from the stall and offers the meat to Grima.

It is greasy and almost rancid, and Grima bites into it like a beast, tugging and chewing at sinew and fat. At least Robin had never eaten like that back at camp. Even when all they'd had was bear.

"Your body will need much more than meat," Chrom says, "although Plegia is not a country that I imagine grows many greens." He looks at the harsh sand beneath his feet and pities the people of Plegia all the more.

* * *

Days pass and Chrom begins his duties overseeing the people. He almost tricks himself into believing that he is the Exalt of Ylisse again. That the plans he makes will ensure the future of the kingdom and the people won't be annihilated once Grima has renewed his full strength. Or at least, that's what he wants to believe.

There is much work to do. Chrom works tirelessly. Each day, the bodies of the Grimleal and commoners pile up. There are more funeral pyres in this place than markets. It is a city on its last, dying gasp.

"At this rate, the storehouses will run out of grain in a matter of weeks," he tells Grima. "I propose we create a system of rations until the harvest comes in."

"Do as you wish." Grima seems bored. No, not bored. Anxious. Chrom does not pretend to know what Grima thinks about all day and all night upon that throne. He only knows that the loss of the emblem has dashed his plans. He must conserve his energy, Chrom realizes, or the dragon will fade into nothingness.

Once again, Chrom feels his fingers dance lightly on the Falchion. He wonders why he cannot bring himself to bury the sword in Grima's neck. The thought of it, however, enters his mind and won't go away, like the flies surrounding the mass of Grima's penitent followers.

Grima sullenly slumps in his throne.

"Do you remember, Chrom? That game we played together sometimes? The one with the black and white pieces?"

"Chess?" Chrom asks.

"Yes, that one." Grima's eyes start to gleam. "I thought perhaps…"

"You want to play?"

"Play?" Grima shuts his eyes. Perhaps he thinks the word is too petulant. "…yes, I suppose I would like to. It would leave my mind sharp for when my armies scour the world."

"I'll be back," Chrom says, rushing off on another errand. He searches the anarchic city for anything resembling the game, but can't find a set, even a piece of a set. The Plegians, it seems, favor games of chance, not skill.

A couple of summoners elucidate him on the reason why during a round of dice. "You see, Exalt…" one begins, "it does not matter how good you are with the sword, or tome, or lance. The worms that feast on your flesh are impartial."

For the first time, Chrom realizes why Ylisse and Plegia have never gotten along. One was a culture that valued life above all else, and the other saw death as its great unifier.

Chrom wins the roll and demands fire magic as his winnings. He finds wood and before long the mages have put together a scorched and passable set. It is not beautiful, Chrom knows, but it will do.

Only, when he returns to the castle, he finds Grima sleeping on the throne in a cold sweat, his face contorted in pain.

"Robin?" Chrom approaches him, and places the chess set carefully down on the floor.

As he moves closer, he can see that Robin's skin is pale.

"Robin?" He says again.

There is silence as Robin opens his eyes just enough. Then his body erupts in a coughing fit. He falls to his knees, clutching at his abdomen, and Chrom wonders if he really has used the Falchion on him.

"Robin!" Chrom lifts him to his feet, only to have the man collapse against his chest.

"Wretched vessel…" Grima groans as Chrom helps him back onto the throne. His breathing is labored and his clothes are damp with perspiration. Chrom brings a hand to his forehead and finds that it is hot. He is still amazed how he can touch Grima without consequence.

Grima shakes. His hands wrap around his arms. "This body is so… cold," he gasps out.

Chrom knows that the uncomfortable throne is no place for someone with a fever. He lifts Grima up, still surprised by how light he is. How still.

Like its city, Plegia Castle is a maze. He searches in vain for a bed, a divan, anything—but the rooms are haphazard disarrays of armor and dark spells and tables thrown on their sides and murdered servants turning to dust and tatters and bone.

Finally, Chrom finds something resembling a bed.

It is little more than cushions thrown into a pile, but he finds it virtually less soiled than anything else in the forsaken castle. He lays Grima down and removes his robe and then his shirt and trousers. He tries to be as gentle as Lissa had been when she cared for the wounded in camp. Her hands had worked deftly, sometimes removing a torn bandage, at other times mending a dislocated shoulder.

But he can not be as gentle. He tugs and rips and tears until the man before him is in his underclothes. A sheen of sweat, barely visible in the dim light, covers him, and his hair is mussed and plastered to his forehead. And even now, Chrom can not bear the thought of leaving his side.

This isn't _your_ Robin, he tries to remind himself.

Again and again he has reminded himself.

But it is impossible to tell the difference now. He finds some rags and wets them to wipe the sweat from Robin's—yes, _Robin's_ —brow. It is agonizing waiting helplessly as Robin sleeps. And it is agonizing still that a voice tells him to let the man die. Will the Fell Dragon be powerless without a vessel? Or will it continue to search the generations for its heir?

He spends the night by the man's side, although it is hard to tell what is night and what is day from the brooding light on the window panes.

Robin sleeps fitfully, sometimes calling out in his sleep. It is nonsensical string of words, and Chrom wonders if he is fighting the dragon's influence, if he has been fighting all this time. A well of guilt surges up in Chrom.

"You've been fighting all this time," he says as he swathes a wet rag across the man's forehead. "And what have I been doing?"

Hiding.

The raids had started with a renewed intensity the second they returned to Ylisse. Ylisstol still stood, but it was an empty shell that held cavaliers and pegasus knights and commoners who were too frightened to leave. Chrom had led the Shepherds through the countryside, circumventing the cycle of barbarians and Risen that crossed the border. They'd managed to keep some of the farmland in tact, and yet, still, more raids, more Risen, followed.

Months of this grueling lifestyle had rankled the Shepherds. Finally, Chrom had come up with the suggestion while watching the Plegian mages experiment on a Risen's corpse.

"Can you make me like that?" He pointed and Tharja's lips had turned from a disaffected frown to a wicked smile.

"Why, yes, I can. And I've been meaning to try on the living, too." 

* * *

 

It is morning, or something like it, when Grima stirs. From beneath a nest of blankets and torn rags, he looks hazily up at Chrom.

"What is this… pain?" His cheeks have regained a ruddy color.

"You pushed yourself too hard, Robin," Chrom says. "A human body can only take so much."

Grima closes his eyes. For a second, Chrom thinks he has fallen asleep again. Then his lips twitch and eyes open to mere slits.

"Yes… perhaps so…" he mumbles. "Will you… will you get me something to drink, Chrom?"

It takes a moment for Chrom to realize that such words are foreign to Grima's tongue. He does not ask, he commands. But for Chrom, Grima has made an exception.

He brings water to Grima's lips. He drinks it, but does not seem sated.

"Perhaps something with a bit more… flavor…" Grima whispers. He leaves Grima to rest and plunges into the city again. Thankfully, Plegians are fond of their tea, even if they live in an utterly arid and hot country.

He brews it himself back at the castle. Years on the road, as part of the Shepherds, has made him self-reliant. He knows how to mend (though not very well), knows the right herbs to gather for a fever, knows even how to set a broken arm.

But he has never known magic.

He'd asked Em about it once. She'd only smiled at him and said, "magic is no good without a strong mind," before returning to the letters on her desk. Chrom still remembered the pungent smell of ink and his sister's quiet scratchings with the quill as the hours sank into midnight and the fire in the hearth sank to a glimmer.

He'd asked Lissa another time. "If I concentrate really hard something happens," she'd said. "I don't really know how else to explain it." He remembered the sunny field, the smell of grass and the scattering of yellow butterflies the same color as Lissa's dress. He remembered her attention was on something a moment later and their conversation was lost to their duties once more.

Then, he asked Robin.

"It's a little like feeling the flow of a rushing river beneath your fingertips," Robin had told him. That day, they'd found a river to set up camp next to. Chrom remembered the rocky shore and how he'd stumbled on his way to meet the tactician. "It's channeling all your thoughts until they become one, something precise, something concrete," the tactician had said before unleashing a lightning bolt, the pages of his tome flurrying from the rush of power.

Chrom had felt the rush, too, his heart jolting against his ribcage. In another moment it was gone and he caught Robin smiling, a glimmer of sunset in his eyes.

It's like that when he returns to Grima: a rush. But this time there are no rivers or butterflies. The room is awash in shadows and Chrom can feel the caustic menace of them.

He hesitates at the door.

"Come, Chrom," Grima beckons. His tone is not menacing. It is not as it should be.

As Chrom steps near the shadows, he can only feel a flickering warmth, as if he is near a fire at camp.

Grima hovers amongst these shadowy flames, his hair tousled by the current. He is suspended in the air above Chrom, half naked, his eyes fixed on him.

"I brought you this." Chrom offers the steaming cup to him. It seems a silly gesture now, to give Grima tea. Grima, however, floats down, until his feet are just a hair away from touching the ground. His hands clasp the cup and he brings it to his lips and closes his eyes.

"Mmm…" he sighs. "Perfect."

He opens his eyes again and gives Chrom a quizzical look.

"Why does this body grow warm when it is around you, Chrom?" Grima stares into his eyes. It's a look that should scare him, but Chrom finds himself wanting to reach out and touch him instead. "Is it a sickness, too?"

"No, it's—" Chrom starts, but cannot finish. What can he say? How can he explain a feeling he barely knows himself?

"It is good it is not a sickness then," Grima says, setting the cup aside. "Perhaps this body is more resilient yet." He looks wistful for a moment, so much like Robin would before a war council, and says, "come, Chrom. You must help me plan the invasion of Valm."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content in this chapter.

If Chrom just focuses on the little things, he can almost trick himself into believing that this is a normal mission for the Shepherds. After all, he has his tactician by his side and the battles are going well.

Too well.

Chrom leads the charge, but it is the Risen that lead the slaughter. Armies are cut down beneath their blood-soaked blades.

But, if he only focuses on the smaller details, he can see Robin in the distance, flashes of lightning emanating from his tome. It is enough to send the opposing armies rushing back.

Or perhaps they run from the shadowy specter of the dragon that races behind Robin, from the way it cleaves the blue sky into a dripping red.

And, if he ignores the fact that this is Valm and not Ylisse, he can almost make himself believe that he will make it through this battle without losing an comrades, that he will sit around the fire swapping stories and feeling the light glow of peace and comfort among so many friends and allies.

It is a _lie_ , however.

* * *

Back in Plegia, Grima had asked what he remembered of Valm, and Chrom had recollected the battles of Yen’Fay and Walhart. How it had been his—Robin’s—tactical prowess that had turned the tides of battle at the Demon’s Ingle. How he had even…

But Grima does not seem interested in old war stories.

He paces the room and the maps and parchment flutter at his tyrannical impatience. There is something about his footsteps, some writhing hatred he has, that makes Chrom weary.

“Damn this body!” Grima holds his head. “My memories… everything is…”

Chrom keeps his voice calm and steady. “What do you remember?” he asks. It is not an inquisition. It is unguarded. A suggestion.

Grima looks at him, fury in his blood red eyes. But when he speaks, his voice is measured, without the bite of rage. “Fragments of battles and strategies. Traveling with that detestable band of fools.” Chrom can only think he means the Shepherds. “Awakening from the darkness,” he continues. “And the darkness itself.” He looks over Chrom once more. This time, the fury seems to have quelled. “But you—I remember _you_ especially.” The words linger in the air. 

“I’m glad,” Chrom says without thinking. Perhaps he should watch his words around the Fell Dragon, but being with him seems so familiar. Some moments, he can almost trick himself into believing that the man before him  _is_ Robin.

A question plays at the back of Chrom's mind. A question he is too afraid to ask. Instead, he asks a different one. "Will there be enough ships for the crossing? If you plan to invade an entire continent, you may need more than what the Shep—the Ylliseans left you." 

The edges of Grima's mouth curves into a bloodthirsty grin. "We will not need many. The Valmese army is already decimated thanks to those Ylliseans." 

* * *

A soldier rushes him and breaks Chrom from his thoughts. The familiar clang of sword against sword floods into Chrom's ears. He pushes back, breaking the parry, and brings the Falchion downwards. The soldier screams as the sword cuts through his flimsy armor. Blood soaks his tunic and erupts from his mouth. In another swift movement, Chrom ends his suffering. 

He can see the truth of Grima's words now. The armies of Valm are scant and and ill-prepared. Whatever leadership has risen from the firmament is too green to fend off an invasion from such a powerful nation. One by one the soldiers fall.

He comes away from the battle drenched in blood. He almost wishes it was his blood and not that of the soldiers and farmers that now litter the battlefield. Every instinct tells him to wash it all off, but a Grimleal is leading him to the tent at the far corner of the camp.

There is something strange about the tent as he pulls back the flaps. Chrom needs to close his eyes for a second, smell the scents linked to memory. When he opens them again, he is back at the Shepherds’ camp. A large table is the centerpiece of the tent and round it are placed all manner of weaponry. On the table, spread from edge to edge, is a map of Valm, and the game pieces he made in Plegia are positioned around it. Robin pores over the map, arranging pieces to reflect the battle’s outcome. Black is winning.

“Congratulations on your victory, Chrom,” Robin says without tearing his gaze away from the map. “I expected no less from the commander of my armies.” He seems happy, and for the first time, in what feels like a long time, Chrom finds himself smiling, too.

Is he dreaming, perhaps? He still reeks of the battlefield, and yet, in this tent, the battles seem a world away. It is just him and Robin. 

Before Chrom realizes it, he is by Robin’s side, studying the map with him.

It's a good map, Chrom has to admit. His gaze sweeps over the plains and finely detailed mountains, tediously drawn forests and thickly blotted rivers.

“Hmm… perhaps if we send the troops this way,” Chrom says as he moves a black piece around a bend. 

He hears a cluck of disapproval. “But the forest is the perfect place for them to hide reinforcements,” Robin says as he brings up a white piece. “We could be walking into an ambush.” 

Chrom starts to retreat the piece, but his hand brushes against Robin’s. It is the slightest touch, barely even anything—it shouldn’t mean _anything_ —and yet a surge of warmth invades his skin. It does not hurt, and Chrom finds that he wants more. He is starved for touch, starved for anything resembling it, the way salt makes him thirst for water.

He places his hand over Robin’s. “I’ve missed this,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

Robin looks up at him. His eyes are muddled by the light. Chrom can’t tell what color they are.

“You were always by my side before,” Robin says. “It felt strange when you were gone.”

How many days did the both of them spend huddled around this table? How many hours were spent debating, planning, theorizing? Chrom just wants those days back. 

And yet, here they are. He is at Robin's side once more. It feels as if Naga has given him another chance. To right the wrongs of the past. To reveal the feelings he's always had. 

There must be some reason for it. Some reason why both of their hands don't move. His other arm wraps around Robin’s shoulders. It’s the same gesture he’s done dozens of times, and yet it feels new this time. There’s the _clack clack_ of the game pieces as his fingers interlace with Robin’s.

“This warmth again,” Robin says. His voice is soft and breathless. It makes Chrom shudder. “It feels strange, too.”

“Would you like more of it?” Chrom asks. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, and the old fear of giving himself away comes back. He is not Risen. He is not on Grima’s side.

He must kill Grima. 

But not now. Not here. 

It’s Robin. It’s Robin. _Robin_ …

“…yes,” Robin answers.

The table surrenders to both their weights. The game pieces scatter everywhere.

Chrom kisses every part of exposed flesh he can find. But is not enough. His hands work quickly, loosening the drawstrings of Robin’s cloak and tunic. The fabric tears from his impatience, but Robin doesn’t seem to mind. He is stripped before Chrom starts to work on his own armor. But his hands can’t resist touching him. His finger traces a line, down his smooth chest to the corded muscles of his stomach, down even to the inviting curve of his thigh.

“Let me.” Robin grasps at the buckles of his pauldron and Chrom leans down. He feels the weight on his shoulders lighten in moments and nuzzles his face into Robin’s hair. It isn’t long before the rest of his armor is removed, and Chrom wonders if perhaps magic was involved in some way. But the thought is quickly whisked away as his chest meets Robin’s, as his hand lightly, tantalizingly, plays along his side.

“Chrom…” Robin breathes. His face has turned pink and his eyes are dark.

It takes everything Chrom had to slow his hand. To not spend himself too early. Instead, his fingers trace along Robin’s inner thigh.

“Can I touch you here?” he asks.

He feels fingers curl around his hair, feels as Robin brings his head down to his waiting mouth. But they don’t quite kiss. Instead Robin whispers, his breath hot on his ear, “do as you wish.”

And then Chrom can’t help himself. He takes both of their erections in his hand and works freely. Robin’s body trembles beneath him, sometimes moaning, sometimes choking on pleasure.

How long has he wanted this? Chrom isn't sure. He isn't sure if his desperation is born from having lost this man, or the miracle of finding him again. 

He thinks Grima hasn't won. That he can't possibly win if it's like this, if he convinces him he's Robin instead. 

Chrom starts to rock, his knees going numb from the wooden table. His erection slides against Robin’s and they both feel so warm.

Robin groans, his hands sometimes pushing against Chrom’s, sometimes working with his. It is as if, finally, the tactician has no idea what to do, what course to take. “You must—you must—” he gasps out, but he cannot decide what to do with his hands, with his hips that push up against Chrom’s, with his breathless words and whimpers.

He feels Robin quiver beneath him and knows he’s close. He lets go of himself, even though every voice in his head is screaming not to, and grabs hold of Robin’s cock. He works fluidly, quickly, and hopes that Robin does not mind his callused fingers.

Finally, he feels the stillness and watches as Robin arches back, his body sweating and breathing and shaking. He watches as the cum escapes Robin’s body and forms a narrow line on his stomach.

And then Chrom is finishing himself off, watching as Robin’s body continues to shake, as the cum continues to pump out.

It feels so right to be here like this. His body and Robin’s. When he reaches his own climax, he is sure to press himself against the other man. As if that will somehow make them closer. As if that will somehow make everything right again.

He breathes in pure bliss. Everything is perfect. 

It is a lie, however.

He feels the man beneath him break free of him and then watches as Grima wipes the cum off his stomach. He sits up quickly and does not say a word as he searches for his clothing.

He works silently as he dresses himself again. The tears on his clothes disappear and somehow the red gleam has come back into his eyes.

Chrom just stands there dumbfounded as Grima takes in the sight of him. Chrom knows he is exposed, but he makes no move to cover himself. There is no point. Grima leaves the tent with a smirk and Chrom finds himself hastily picking up his clothes. A few moments later, a low-ranking sorcerer pokes his head in and announces he has come to help him dress.

He refuses, of course, and calls for a bucket of water and a washcloth instead. He can still see Grima’s smirk and wonders what it means.

* * *

Valm falls in three days.

Chrom finds himself looking out from the ramparts of Walhart’s former stronghold. The sky is tinged with lightning. The ground shakes with each peel of thunder. It does nothing to deter the undead army at the base of the ramparts. The clinking of metal and the rumbling of hooves are fresh in Chrom’s ears.

He should feel proud. It is a stunning victory, and yet all he can feel is disgust. He cannot get Robin out of his mind. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees his skin, the smooth lines of his thighs and hungry eyes. Desire floods Chrom, demands he touch that flesh again. But when he opens them again, he sees Grima. Grima smirking at him. Grima taunting him. 

A question burns in Chrom's head, followed by another: was it Robin back there, or Grima? 

That’s when he sees her. A black stain in the red sky.

“Exalt!” Aversa calls. “I’ve located a rebel base to the Southwest. Come with me.” The pegasus lands on the narrow surface of the rampart. He eyes her cautiously, but she offers no other explanation. 

Finally, he mounts the beast and feels the rush of wind as they leap into the sky. Up above, he feels the tinge of electricity coasting through the air, and yet Aversa does not seem bothered by it. He looks down at the great swathes of Risen and Plegians below and then at the swatches of forests and lakes. Aversa does not say another word as the sky slowly, subtly, turns from red to purple to blue.

“I am not sure if just the two of us can take on the rebels together,” Chrom says, matter-of-factly.

Aversa ignores him. Her silence is infuriating.

“What are you planning, Aversa?” Chrom demands. He still does not trust her and for the barest hint of a minute he entertains thoughts that she is leading him into an ambush. _But what would be the point of that?_ , a more reasonable side of himself contends. The voice sounds like Robin's.

Aversa looks back at him. Her profile is sharply cut, and her eyes are still so deadly, and yet something about her reminds him of Sumia. Perhaps it is the weariness under her eyes, or the set of her jawline as she grinds her teeth.

“So maybe it is true,” she says as she swings her head forward again. The pegasus rushes downward suddenly and Chrom has to grab hold of her to keep from falling off. He regrets it instantly as his arms start to feel the heat of her, at first comforting, and then unbearable. He almost releases her despite the distance he would fall. 

They hit the ground and Chrom finds shaking free of her immediately. His feet touch the ground hard and he almost reaches for his sword when he turns around, as if expecting a fight.

But Aversa calmly dismounts her ink black steed. There are no wasted movements in her motions as her leg swings around the flank. It is like watching a dancer. 

“Why have you taken me here?” Chrom says, blinking. There is no perpetual red light, and his eyes strain to adjust.

“The pegasus rider sent me to check up on you.” Aversa’s tone is neither disinterested nor caring. She strikes that perfect balance that seems to be inherent in all Plegians; almost inhuman in their lack of concern, and yet still so pragmatic. “I needed to make up a lie to get you alone. Away from…” she doesn’t finish.

“I am fine,” he says, though he is not sure how true that is now. “Tell her not to worry.” But it seems like a futile request when he utters it. Aversa studies him, her eyes racking over him like the runes in a spell book. He feels oddly vulnerable under her gaze, as if he has something to hide. The feeling entirely new to him; he has never been good at keeping secrets.

“Your allies think you have fallen under some sort of enchantment.” Aversa scrutinizes him.

“An enchantment?” Chrom almost wants to laugh and yet a heat grows inside him. A worry that she will see through his calm mien, straight into the memories of Robin naked on the table.

“They cannot understand why you have not slain the Fell Dragon yet,” she says. “They cannot understand why you continue to stand at his side.” Her eyes turn strangely cat-like, sharp and discerning. “They think a spell has been cast on you.”

“Tell them there is no such thing,” Chrom says. A spate of anger infects his voice, but it quickly dissipates. “I am in complete control of myself.”

“And those Valmese soldiers you slew?” she quips.

“I only took my sword up against those who would have killed me had I not done so.”

Her eyebrows rise and he cannot tell if that answer has satisfied her, or why making her satisfied is even a concern of his.

“I was also sent to deliver a message.” Aversa crosses her arm, her expression relaxing a bit. “You don’t have much time.”

Of course. The spell. How long has it been, Chrom wonders. The days have melted into each other just as the soldiers had fallen on the battlefield, all their faces melding into indistinguishable, faceless corpses. A trill of guilt starts to rise to the surface. What is he doing here in Valm? He should be with the Shepherds, facing down Risen and raids. He should not be here, at the side of that…. that….

_Monster._

“…your Plegian mage thinks it might hold out for two or three more days at most. I would hurry if I were you.” Aversa gives him a sharp look and then pushes off her pegasus. The beast grunts, its nostrils flaring as it too looks over Chrom.

"Do you want to know why I joined your little cause, Chrom?" she asks. His name comes out like a sneer, but he prefers it to  _Exalt._

"Enlighten me," he says. 

He thinks she might smile from his curt statement, but her expression darkens. Something about her eyes grow heavier. She sighs, and it's the first time he has ever seen her look so weak. So sad. "I discovered the truth of who I was," she begins. Her lips crease, as if she is telling a dirty, disgusting secret. "Validar, curse his name, found me in a village. As you know, I have exceptional magical abilities. It was no different when I was younger. That cursed man discovered me and took me away from my village. But before he did that, he killed everyone there. Perhaps my family did not want me to go with him. Perhaps he thought my village, with such powerful children, was a threat. I don't suppose I'll know." She pauses, drawing a breath. "Like a fool, I believed he had raised me as his daughter, that I had been abandoned." She crosses her arms again, but this time, he suspects it's because she feels a chill. "I adored him. I really did. He was like a father to me." 

Chrom wrinkles his eyebrows. "What is your point?" 

"I thought it would be obvious. But perhaps I overestimated you," she says. Finally, her cruel smile returns. "Know this: one can be enchanted without much spell work." She looks up and his gaze follows her. A halo of golden light emanates from the West. For a second, Chrom wonders what it could be. Then he remembers, and wonders how he could have forgotten about the sun.

"You need to get back," she says, mounting the pegasus once more. This time, he does not question her.

* * *

 When he returns, he is led to a great hall within the stronghold. A great table sits in the middle of the large, narrow room, laden with a myriad of delicacies. It is a feast. And yet, there is only one at the table. Grima sits alone, consuming every tender morsel like an animal.

“Chrom.” Grima looks up. His chin is splattered with juice or blood.

“Robin.”

He joins him, scraping a chair against the hard stone floor.

“This country has much to offer,” Grima says in-between mouthfuls of food. He snaps a fowl bone in half and Chrom almost winces from the sound. “It’s almost a shame it will burn to the ground.”

Chrom cannot stomach it. He has stopped pretending. He is disgusted by this grotesque display, by the honorable soldiers he has had to cut down in the name of this monster.

And yet…

“Chrom?” Grima asks, looking at him with something that Chrom can only describe as concern. His eyes are that ruddy brown color, the color of blood long dried, and his voice is wistful and soft. “Are you not well?”

“I’m fine,” he says as he holds his head. It is a thin lie. Robin should see through it. Robin always sees through everything.

“So you are.” Grima makes a nondescript sound as he continues to consume.

Chrom is not sure what he’s been thinking all this time. He needs to kill Grima, and do it quickly. Lucina and the others are counting on him. And yet, when he reaches for the Falchion, his hand shakes. He cannot bring this sword down on Grima any more than he can bring it down on a Lissa.

Robin is his friend.

And he loves Robin, more than a friend.

What is this churning emotion, he wonders. What is this—guilt, hesitation, confusion? It all meshes into one as he watches Grima inhale meat and blood and wine.

“I can tell, you know,” Grima’s voice is low and Chrom tries to hide his shock as his eyes sweep towards the head of the table once more.

“The rebels got away,” Grima continues and Chrom hides a sigh of relief somewhere down in his lungs. “You would have smelled like fresh blood,” Grima says. His hands have finally stopped tearing at the carcass before him. His lips curve into a small smile. “And yet, I am almost glad you didn’t find them.”

The sharp and stinging sound of silver platters and porcelain plates echo the chamber as Grima crawls onto the table. Some of the plates crash to the floor and yet Grima doesn’t flinch. He inches his way to Chrom and places a hand on his cheek. It no longer surprises Chrom that his hand feels so warm, that his hearts aches every time Robin looks at him this way.

“Always recklessly rushing off to the next battle,” Grima sighs. He climbs off the table and straddles Chrom’s lap. From here, Chrom can tell that Grima’s expression is pained. He almost asks if he is feeling sick again.

Then Grima’s head sinks to his chest and Chrom shivers from the touch.

“What if my magic couldn’t reach you?” Grima asks, his fingertips just above his heart. His white hair is soft against Chrom’s chin. He still smells like Robin, the leathery smell of the armory tent and the creaminess of parchment and the harsh scent of ink. Chrom wants him. Oh gods. _He wants him_.

“If something were to happen to you…” He can feel the man sigh against him. It is a comforting feeling. He finds himself wrapping his arms around him, and he feels the other tremble.

He cannot stop himself as he buries his face in Robin’s neck. He nips at the skin there and feels Robin’s breath hitch. It is a vulnerable sound, a yearning sound. Robin starts to loosen the belt at his waist, but Chrom covers his hand in his, stopping him. “I want to show you how it’s really done,” Chrom whispers roughly against Robin’s ear. “I want you. All of _you_.”

* * *

Unlike Plegia Castle, this fortress has maintained a sense of decorum. Chrom finds a room with a bed in it without even searching very long. All the while, Robin clings to him, placing soft kisses on his exposed shoulder.

“Here,” Crom says as he makes his way to the bed. It is not pristine, but it is far better than anything Chrom has slept in a far too long time.  Perhaps a minor general had stayed in it once. A practice spear leans against the bed post, and a shell of armor has been left on the mantle.

Robin hardly seems to notice it. His kisses have become more frantic, more desperate. He sucks at the skin of Chrom’s neck until Chrom’s body is shaking with anticipation. Until he can barely stand it anymore. He sets down the oil gingerly—amazing himself with his own foresight of whisking it away from the dining table—and takes Robin by the shoulders and all but pushes him onto the bed.

It takes minutes to divest Robin of each and every piece of clothing. His hands work slowly, furtively trying to not tear or break or rip. He is only half-way successful and by the time he finishes, and Robin is lying there with his small clothes torn to shreds. It’s a sight that makes Chrom breathless as his own breeches fall to his knees. He crawls over him, and his skin prickles each time it comes into contact with Robin. His hands gently stroke the sides Robin’s face.

Robin stares up at him. His eyes are so trusting. 

Chrom angles his chin and dips down into a deep kiss. It is everything he has wanted after the months of battling. It is peaceful and warm and gentle. He feels Robin’s body shudder. He feels Robin’s hand tangle in his hair. He feels his own heart racing as his body begs for more. _Deeper. Slower._

Robin’s hand moves downward, racing toward both their groins. If Robin touches him there, he feels he might burst.

Chrom grabs that lingering hand and pushes it above Robin’s head. He feels Robin gasp against his lips and uses that surprise to trace a line down the curve of his side. Robin tries to move against the touch, but Chrom easily catches his other wrist in one hand and sinks it into the pillows above Robin's head. 

“C-Chrom…” Robin moans. “Le-let me…”

“No. Not yet,” Chrom grunts while licking his collarbone, the saliva sticking to his throat. He feels Robin’s wrists surge upwards and forces them back down. With his other hand, he squeezes on the supple flesh just behind his hips.

Robin’s body ripples with pleasure. Chrom can feel the muscles tense under his rough touch.

“Chrom…” Robin calls out again in a breathy gasp. He feels those wrists try to break free and pushes down harder. In the back of his mind he knows the man could break free of his grasp if he wanted to.

“What would you do if I let you go?” Chrom asks, almost teasing. When Robin doesn’t respond, Chrom runs his palm down the length of his erection. Robin’s body arches at the touch, and his mouth opens in a silent moan.

“I would… I would…mmpph.” Chrom squeezes and feels the ridges of veins against his fingertips. Robin’s lips tremble as he speaks again, “m-make you c-com…”

“No,” Chrom says. He releases Robin’s hands, and brings the marked one to his lips. “I don’t want that yet.” He kisses the mark gently. “Didn’t you hear me say it? I want all of you.”

He pushes himself off the bed and locates the ewer of oil on the floor. Slick, viscus liquid coats his fingertips as he makes for the bed again.

Robin has not moved and it appears he is catching his breath. His chest lightly rises and falls. He looks so vulnerable and for the barest hint of a second, Chrom can understand the Fell Dragon’s outrage of having a mortal body. How all that nakedness, all those emotions, but feel like a weakness. But the thought is gone as Robin stares up at him. Something about his expression reminds him of that fever he had; all pink and pale and completely, undeniably, his. This time, Chrom can’t help himself. He sinks into the bed once more and covers Robin’s mouth in a kiss. One hand wraps around Robin’s hair while the other, oil slick, stays just out of reach.

Their kiss is long and deep and Chrom’s mind swims on the current of bliss. Robin’s body moves in a gentle, forceful rhythm against his and Chrom can feel the heat between the both of them. As always, it doesn’t burn.

He breaks the kiss with a wet, popping noise and looks into Robin’s eyes. They are unfocused, lazily looking up at him, lost in waves of pleasure.

“Do you want to feel me inside you?” Chrom asks. The words come out so smoothly even though his heart his beating so fast.

Robin blinks slowly. A small tinge of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

A long stretch of silence falls between them. Chrom can feel it with each breath, each blink of Robin’s eyes as he looks at something far away.

“Yes,” he finally answers. “It’s what this…,” he hesitates, as if searching for the right word. “No.” He closes his eyes, and then opens them again. They shine with a new clarity. “It’s what _I_ want.”

“It will not be comfortable at first,” Chrom says. “But I will try to make it as enjoyable as I can for you.”

He pushes up on his elbows and slides down between Robin’s legs. He starts slowly, one finger sliding into the entrance as Robin lets out a small gasp and shudders. With his other hand, Chrom grabs the base of his erection and holds it upright like a spear. His tongue licks at the base and follows the vein upwards, until he is lapping at the cleft edge. He pushes another finger in and watches as Robin squeezes his eyes shut. His teeth are clenched, but Chrom cannot tell if he is in pleasure or pain. A mist of tears has formed around his eyes and his face is pink in the low glow of reddish light.

Chrom eases a third finger in and takes him in his mouth. Robin’s expression is magnificent. He has gone mad with pleasure, lolling his head back against the pillow, arms writhing against themselves, mouth open, softly moaning. Chrom thinks he may lose himself just looking into those wanton eyes.

But he needs so much more than that. He glides his fingers around the hole until they come free again, all the while furling his tongue around that sensitive vein on Robin’s cock. His fingers move around, in and out, again and again, until they glide in smoothly. Giving one last loving lick, Chrom removes himself from the bed and slathers his own cock with oil, pumping it swiftly as he looks Robin over.

His head turned away from him and his arms clasped together, as if he is trying to bury his head in them. His knees are spread open, giving Chrom ample view of the spot in-between. Chrom takes a hand and runs it down the length of Robin’s body one more time. He feels the intensity of heat, the slickness of sweat, and Robin moans for him in a broody, impatient sort of way.

“Are you ready?” he asks, just to make sure.

Robin nods.

Chrom shudders with anticipation as he positions himself between Robin’s legs once more. He grabs hold of his own cock and teases Robin’s entrance with it. He watches as Robin’s expression changes from tense determination to a false calm mien and then back again. He wants to keep that picture in his mind, all the lovely memories he has of Robin tucked away someplace safe.

“Pl-please, Chrom,” Robin whispers, his face desperate with need.

And then, Chrom can’t hold back any longer. He delves in, base deep, into that nest of heat between Robin’s legs. He finds himself collapsing onto Robin, wrapping him in his arms, feeling the shuddering tension as they both breathe in deep and hard.

“How does it feel?” He can’t see Robin’s face as he buries himself in the crook of his neck, in the folds of his sweet scent.

“It feels…” Robin breathes. “…like I am whole again.” Chrom tries to picture his expression. Will he have that languid stare from before? Or perhaps that baffling smirk from the tent?

Chrom can't help but look.

Robin is smiling, tears spilling from his eyes. “Chrom,” he says. His hand reaches up to touch his cheek. “I have something to tell you. Will you listen?”

“Of course,” Chrom says. His body rocks, his cock tight and warm within him.

“I thought perhaps if you disappeared, I would become whole again,” he says. He is still smiling, the tears are still flowing. “But perhaps…” he pauses. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

“I never wanted to leave you,” Chrom says, reaching up to clasp the hand that rests on his cheek.

“Then will you stay with me?” Robin wraps that hand around his and brings it down to his lips. “Don’t leave me, Chrom.”

 _Not by choice_ , Chrom wants to say, _I would never leave you. I wanted to stay there at the Dragon’s Table. I wanted to hold you as I am now._

But he can’t say those things as the breath gets caught in his throat and he feels himself approaching that crest of pleasure. He lets out a loud and low moan as he takes Robin’s cock in his hand and caresses it.

He loses himself all too quickly. It comes pounding out, a violent explosion. He breathes hard, his head blank, his emotions swimming somewhere above the bedpost.

When he comes back, he can feel Robin’s body breathing beneath him, and the stickiness on his stomach and legs. It seems only right when he lifts his head up and brushes his lips against Robin’s once more. Not a deep kiss this time. A light one. A fleeting one.

Robin’s expression is one of peace. One of happiness. The glow of the light outside has turned his features soft, no longer a harsh scarlet but a bright rose. “Don’t leave me, Chrom,” he whispers and Chrom can’t tell if it’s the light or something else that makes Robin’s eyes glow the same color as the sky.

* * *

Outside the fort, the Risen hold their position. Their cold, dead steel rips apart flesh and flank, splattering blood, driving the rebels back with each strike.

But within the fortress, Chrom’s hands explore the warmth of Robin’s skin. He envelops him in his arms, in waves of comfort and pleasure, never wanting to let go.

And maybe it is as Aversa said. Maybe Chrom has fallen under a spell. But it is a spell written in no tome, and no mage can cast such an enchantment.

It is a spell that Chrom let himself fall under when he found Robin sleeping in the field. When he returned to him in Plegia. When he lay with him in Valm. He relishes in it. He lives in it.

“You will lead a patrol party around the perimeter,” Robin says as he lays out his tactical plan with the Grimleal. Chrom has been at his side for hours, quietly observing the war council alongside other Pelgian generals.

“The rebels have become more desperate. A show of force is needed to keep them in their place.” A sorcerer nods and makes to leave, but Chrom speaks up.

“Let me do it.”

“You are the commander of my army,” Robin says, but it is not a reprimand. “I need you for more important things.”

“I know,” Chrom chuckles. He sounds just like all those months ago when he was afraid that Chrom would be attacked by some common brigand behind his tent. The same old Robin. “But I need some fresh air.”

Robin’s lips are a tight line, but he relinquishes. “Very well. If that is what you wish.”

Chrom walks out from the stuffy little chamber. As he observes the halls, he passes a mirror. It is the first time he has looked at himself in what feels like weeks.

He seems well. There is color in cheeks and his skin, while still pale, seems to be brightening from that horrid, pallid color he remembers seeing.

_No… that’s not right…_

Chrom approaches the mirror.

But it _is_ right. He stands before the mirror, no longer a monster but a man.

The spell is fading.

How many days has it been since Aversa’s warning? He can’t remember anymore.

“Is everything alright, milord?” The voice sounds familiar and Chrom turns, expecting to see Frederick. But it only a sorcerer in strange robes.

“Yes,” he says as he gathers his thoughts and prepares for the patrol.

* * *

It must be an old fort, Chrom surmises, as he walks along the inner edges of the wall. He can tell from the stones. The bottom layer is cut from porous rock, rough-hewn, and weathered down. The subsequent layers seem more refined as he looks up, until he can see the perfect right angles of the top part of the wall.

That’s when he notices a shadow cutting across the rosy moon.

Swordsmen are upon him in seconds. The thick, ringing sound of a dozen unsheathed blades sails through the night. Chrom is caught in a ring of glinting metal and dark faces.

The first thing Chrom looks for is an opening.

One after one, the sorcerers are cut down, no match for the swordsmen’s speed. The enemy fights like Lon’qu and Say’ri, all quickness and singing steel. Chrom bounds toward the gap in the circle just as they swarm inwards. He only barely makes it in time before the circle closes. Then he is drawing the Falchion before a swordsmen dashes forward, drawing his own longsword in a horizontal strike. Steel collides with steel and Chrom can feel the Falchion hum through the pommel.

How did they get over the wall with so many Risen in the way? He hardly has time to wonder as another swordsman breaks from the pack and starts to stalk Chrom.

No good, Chrom thinks. He’s been outnumbered before, but never like this. He considers making for a retreat, just enough to regroup with the forces within the fortress, but he barely has time to fend off two attackers, let alone run from twelve.

“You want a fight?” he calls out to them. “So be it.”

He thrusts the Falchion before him and sets his legs in a defensive stance. The two swordsmen descend on him, blades drawn outwards, the gentle curve of their swords reminding Chrom of wings. Behind them, the others have not advanced and appear to be rifling through the corpses of the sorcerers.

The two come at him, synchronized fighters with mirrored movements. For a moment, Chrom can almost predict their movements, the way their swords will fall. Then one flies right and the other swings left and Chrom struggles to hold off the barrage of their slashes.

A blade cuts into his arm, only deep enough to draw a trickle of blood, but it still stings as he turns around to fend off the attacker. Their swords collide with a blaring sound. If Chrom were alone, he could easily overpower their thin swords. The Falchion is thicker, stronger—but he can only parry long enough to ward off the other attacker.

They are skilled warriors, Chrom can tell. One targets his back while the other makes for his front. They are skilled, but they are not skilled enough. A sword flings at him with force, and Chrom uses a burst of strength to send the attacker back. The man staggers, falling on his back.

Chrom allows himself to breathe finally. There is just enough time for him to face down the other swordsman. He lands a heavy blow that the enemy struggles to counter. Their swords ring out of the lock and the man is left staggering backwards from the force. That's the only opening Chrom needs. He he raises his sword, and strikes. The man collapses, blood spraying from the crescent curve in his neck.

He is about to say the last rites when he feels a tingle of pain on his back. It morphs, searing hot, as a blade digs into his back. He dashes forward before the man can thrust it in fully, but Chrom still winces as he feels the blood trickling down his back. That was close.

He’ll need to end this quickly. But as he readies himself to face his attacker, he sees the other swordsmen have finally focused their attention on him. It is too late to hope for a retreat. The closest enemy is charging in.

Chrom braces himself and—

and—

There is a scream. One at first, then followed by another and another, until it becomes are a deafening crescendo. Chrom opens his eyes, barely aware that he had closed them in the first place. It takes him awhile to recognize what has happened.

Lightning sprouts from the swordsmen’s bodies like the branches of trees. Some try to fight against it, others fall to their knees. Eventually, they all succumb and fall, the lightning trees finally dissipating with their surrender.

Chrom looks for the source of the spell.

And Robin is there. His eyes are a livid red, but he is there.

“Chrom!” he calls. “Are you all right?” He closes the distance between them.

Chrom smiles. It is a wondrous sight. Behind him, the ghostly figure of the dragon materializes out of shadows.

“Just a scratch,” Chrom explains, motioning to his back.

"I wish you wouldn't be so reckless," Robin sighs. 

 _Are you Grima or are you Robin,_ Chrom wants to ask. But there is something else that bothers him. Something he can no longer ignore. 

"How long have you known?" he asks. There is no blame in his voice. He feels the wound start to pulse. Perhaps it is deeper than he thought. 

Robin looks up at him.

"How long have you known I was not Risen?" Chrom asks again. 

Robin lips part, but he does not say anything immediately.  

"Answer me," Chrom demands. 

"Since you came back to me," Robin admits. There is no emotion in his voice. 

“Then… why?” Chrom gasps out. "Why did you accept me? Even my lies." 

“I did not care.” Robin closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they shine red. Then he smiles. It is not a cruel smile. It is an older one. "Besides," Robin says, "I could tell you were lying. You are a terrible liar." 

Chrom finds himself chuckling. The cut in his back feels terrible, and Chrom feels terrible, and yet he is happy. 

It's Robin. It's Robin. It's Robin. 

It is at this moment that Chrom notices a Grimleal drifting out from the shadows of the stone wall. Chrom wonders how he could have missed him. 

The man staggers as he walks. Blood flows in rivulets down his arms. In his hand, there is a cloth. 

Then Chrom feels it. A wave of power emanating from him, from the object he carries.

"My liege," he wheezes as he falls to his knees before the both of them. The cloth falls away, revealing the black stone beneath.

The gem of Sable stares back at Chrom. Enticing him. Mocking him. In that moment he hears the peal Validar’s laughter as a bolt from Thoron slices through his side, he recalls the blood-curling screams from his allies, and the ringing pulse in his ears.

And he sees, in that moment and the other, Grima smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

The nighttime, sea breeze is cold against Chrom’s face. It’s only then he realizes that the spell has faded completely. He can feel the cold again, right down to his very bones.

The gem of Sable has not left Grima’s side since Valm. He stares into it, as if trying to divine an ineffable truth. But Chrom has watched as Grima’s face skews into a look of consternation, as if the gem holds no secrets for him at all. Every time, he tucks it away into his coat pocket, into shadows darker than the stone itself.

“You didn’t burn it,” Chrom says, raising his voice above the sea wind. “Valm, I mean.”

Chrom’s words seem to catch Grima off guard. He staggers a bit as the ship dives from the crest of a wave. Chrom watches the black waves flow against the hull. It’s almost mesmerizing.

When Grima regains his balance, he looks straight ahead. “I had what I wanted.” He holds a hand over the Sable as if over his heart. “There was no point.”

Chrom looks up at the dragon, no longer a spectral form like those out of the corner of his eye, but a tangible creature of raw power and insatiable desire. Its scales are iridescent. Chrom has never noticed before. Not a pure black, but a deep purple. Almost the color of Robin’s robes.

And then, an insufferably irrational idea sparks in Chrom’s mind. He cannot suppress it. He cannot let it go.

“Come back with me to Ylisse,” he says.

“Ylisse?” The word is not an insult on Grima’s tongue. Nor does it sound like a prospect to conquer. It is simply a question. A speculation.

“Do you remember it?”

Grima closes his eyes. The wind ruffles his hair and makes it seem peaceful as freshly fallen snow. “Yes, I remember it now.” He opens his eyes and his gaze is far off, beyond the waves. “Lissa, Sumia, Frederick, Lucina. I remember everyone.”

“There is a lot of work to be done,” Chrom says. “When I left, Ylisstol was all but abandoned. But I’m sure with you at my side, we could rebuild it. Perhaps that’s why everything went so awry. Because you weren’t there to keep us together.”

Grima turns his gaze to the sea. His expression has soured, no longer thoughtful and pleasant. And yet, Chrom thinks, he still looks so much like Robin. Frustrated, distracted, unsure. There is a fire that burns within him, a passion that can’t be put out. It is like Chrom’s own desire for freedom, the spontaneity of the road, where the weight of a crown and country do not exist. And yet, in Robin, it burns for something more. For warmth. For love. For the quintessence of human companionship.

“It is too late to go back, Chrom.”

“Don’t say that.” Chrom steps closer. The wind pulls at Robin’s robes. “Anything can—”

“Look at me!”

And now, Chrom is forced to look at him. At all the things he has ignored. The eyes of Grima burn down his cheeks and his irises are a scarlet harsher than blood.

“Humans have made me this way,” Grima says. “They gave me this hideous form, the more they took, the more they deceived. I could never go back to them. To live among them. It would be… the greatest defeat.” Grima tilts his head and gives him a sad smile.

The wind has picked up and Chrom has to strain to hear his words. “I hated humans. But you were different. I don’t understand why. Perhaps there was something long ago that made me this way. My memories are like the patches of stars in the sky, swamped with emptiness. And yet, when I’m with you,” Grima closes his eyes once more, and the eyes on his cheeks fade away. When he opens them, he is Robin again, but with a certain tiredness. A certain sadness. “I’m at peace again. I have grown weary of trying to comprehend it.”

The waters are turning rough. A light pattering of rain hits Chrom’s face. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he shouts against the wind. “Some things just aren’t meant to be understood.”

“I envy you, Chrom.” Robin never raises his voice, and yet he can hear him perfectly. “You and your willful ignorance.”

The ship suddenly lurches forward and Chrom grabs Robin’s hand. It is slick with rainwater and Chrom must hold both himself and Robin steady as the ship bounces back to stability. Robin collides with his chest as another wave sends their steps back.

The rain is pounding by now and he can feel the slight slant of the deck as the captain tries to navigate out of the storm, or at least, into calmer waters.

“Let’s get out of this rain,” Chrom calls above the storm. He feels Grima nod against his chest.

Belowdecks, Chrom feels every shift and churn of the sea.

It makes him think of the first time he learned to ride a horse. He remembers the feeling of it: a living creature beneath him, living, breathing, bucking, with emotions of its own. It had been hard to relinquish the even steadiness of the ground for the quaky, uneven steps of an animal. Even now, Chrom much prefers walking.

He presses his face to Robin’s. He can feel the steady tension of their closeness, snapping like sparks of Elthunder. His lips vibrate as he licks the moisture on Robin’s jawline. It’s almost infuriating being in these wet clothes, he wants to rip them all off and throw Robin into the nearest bed he can find. He wants to—

“Do you want know why I tried to kill you?” Robin whispers. He can’t hide the neediness of his voice, the shaky, breathy yearning. Chrom plants a deeper kiss on his neck and he feels Robin moan, feels his body quake and react in delectable ways. But he can’t ignore the directness of his words, of Grima’s words.

“You were planning to all along, weren’t you?” he asks. His fingers brush Robin’s waist. He still wears his outfit from Plegia, but the robe lays fallen on the floor in an s-shaped curve like a waiting viper.

“That wasn’t the only reason,” Robin says. His eyes alight with pale red, like the barest hint of sunrise, or annihilation. “It’s because you were the only thing that was keeping me human. You were my heart.”

Chrom can’t wait anymore. His fist knots at the hair on Robin’s nape and eases him up against a wall. He uses his knee to hold him in place, so that Robin is almost straddling him. He can feel the barest hint of the hardness between his legs. Then Chrom plants a kiss, deep and hard, on Robin’s mouth. It’s animalistic, it’s savage and fierce, and there is no reason for it not to be.

But, when he breaks the kiss, his touch turns as gentle as his words.

“Since the moment I saw you that meadow, I’ve want you to be at my side.” Chrom knows he has never been good at words, and yet what he says is the truth. He’s wanted that constant presence in his life. Like a brother. A friend. A lover.

The floor tilts as the ship rocks and Chrom nearly slams against Robin. The closeness of their bodies ignites Chrom’s instincts again. He ambles his way to the great cabin, the place that Grima has claimed as his own, and sets Robin upon the bed. Finally, finally, he divests himself of his wet clothes and feels the freedom of his bare skin.

Robin, too, has managed to strip, and yet, when it is finally just the two of them, Chrom can’t help but go slow. He brushes the back of his hand against Robin’s stomach, following the curve of his pelvis. Robin gasps and shudders.

He eases in slowly. His movements are utter torture, but he wants to stay in this moment for as long as possible. Grima grasps his hips, getting impatient, setting the rhythm himself, but still Chrom retains control.

The ship’s rocking starts to even out. Chrom feels it subside, as the storm passes. He feels himself subside, the sublime feeling, meddling into the person he has loved since laying eyes on him. They will arrive in Plegia soon. He feels Robin curl up against him. In his sleep he is only Robin, only human. Not a dragon, and certainly not a god. Chrom wraps his arm around him, although he knows the man beside him needs no protection.

Robin stirs. For a time, they are both silent. The waves rushing and the ship creaking and their breaths mingling are the only things that fill Chrom’s ears. He wants to stay in this moment, carve it out against the dreary backdrop of the world.

Grima’s voice comes out in cracks. “Stay with me awhile, Chrom. Just the two of us.”

Grima’s eyes are soft and warm. Because it is Grima. It has always been Grima, Chrom realizes. Those moments, that smile.

And that look is so unfair, Chrom thinks. Because he is the prince, the king, the exalt, who is supposed to slay the dragon and save the world. But the fairy tale has unraveled in his hands. It is no longer the story he will tell Lucina at bed time, no longer the tale he will recall over ale and firelight, no longer the song the children will sing when he becomes nothing more than a fairy tale himself.

“I will,” he whispers.

* * *

Word of their victory has preceded them. By the time they reach the docks in Plegia, rows of Grimleal line the streets, prostrating for their arrival. Their chanting mashes with the high-pitched screams of gulls and the breaking waves and the whipping wind. Chrom can barely hear anything as he descends the gangplank.

He doesn’t walk behind Grima, he walks beside him. They are equals now. Just as before. Just as always. If the Grimleal notice, they don’t say a word. Chrom hoists himself onto a stunning, white stallion. Grima’s stallion is black, but its coat blinks violet in the dragon’s light.

The first time Chrom passed through the port town, it was night and he was too consumed with hiding his identity. But now, he sees it is nothing like the Plegian capital. There is life in the streets, beyond the Grimleal. It doesn’t hold onto the edges, like everywhere else he has seen. There are cautious people staring at him from behind windows and down alleys, but they are not the empty, soulless faces that Chrom has come to know so well. Perhaps if things were more like this… If Grima’s light didn’t destroy everything it touched…

They wend out of the town and into rocky plains filled with sagebrush. The road is well traveled.

He doesn’t talk much to Grima, but the silence is not unpleasant. Every now and then Grima looks at him as if to assure himself that he is still there.

Their caravan sets up camp in the wasteland. Chrom views the fires and the tents and lets his heart ache for the Shepherds. He has always loved living rough, but the thought of doing so without his companions is a lonely feeling. Still, it is not entirely lonely. Grima slides beside him, eyes seemingly transfixed by the fire.

“I want to rule beside you,” Chrom says.

Grima says nothing.

“Not as a king. As a partner.” Chrom feels the heat rising to his chest. “If you hate humans, if you’ve lost all faith in us, let’s make it better. Let’s change the world. I don’t want to rule from a pedestal. I want to live among the others and thrive with them.”

Grima looks up at him. “Ever the idealist.”

Chrom chuckles. “It’s true. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“I want to watch the world burn.” Grima’s eyes reflect the fire. “But if I did that, I wouldn’t have you.” His hand brushes against Chrom’s and Chrom takes it in his own. He has made his resolve now. He will save Robin—he will show Grima what it means to be human—and by doing so, he will save the world.

“No more sacrifices,” Chrom says. “Let’s try a different way.”

Grima smiles at him. It is a smile full of teeth, but his hand is still there, lightly against his own. “And what of wars?”

“If we have to,” Chrom says. “Only then.”

Grima laughs. “The world you want seems very boring.”

“But that is a peaceful world,” Chrom says. Grima doesn’t pull his hand away.

Later, in the darkness of the tent, their bodies slide against furs and silks and one another. They are quiet, only heavy breaths in the dark, but that makes everything more interesting. Chrom’s hands move everywhere, as if his fingers could memorize the feel of Robin’s body. Their kisses are deep, fire on his tongue and heat in his belly.

When they finally, finally break apart, Chrom is bathed in sweat and his chest rises and falls in a wild rhythm.

He holds Grima against his chest, feels the other’s breathing, smells the scent of his body—so very human—and imagines a world where they can exist not as enemies—

he looks in Grima’s eyes, Robin’s eyes

—not as enemies, but as something else.

* * *

The road to Plegia is deserted. That is not surprising. Chrom coughs, and his mount starts to shift awkwardly. He can smell Plegia in the air: a smell of burning funeral pyres and blood-soaked magic. It fizzes in the air, heavy and metallic and terrible. Grima’s head is held high, as if he’s noticed nothing. No. As if everything is normal.

They reach the city gates and the maw of the city stands before him. It is quiet. The hoofbeats of their horses are the only sounds that echoe through the city, and Chrom starts to think that it’s too late; that all of this city has sacrificed itself to Grima.

Then he sees it. The barest flickering of color in landscape drenched in violet. A blue flag flying from the castle. The symbol of Ylisse.

Chrom’s mouth hangs open as Grima shouts orders to his troop. At once, their forces scatter, moving through the city like floodwaters. They rush through every street, clearing the area.

Finally, he turns to Grima. He does not have the expression that Chrom expects. Grima stares blankly at the flag and then back to him. Chrom can’t even begin to think what is going on in his head.

* * *

They reach the palace and the silence holds its breath. Chrom leads the delegation up the steps, Falchion drawn.

He enters the hall and is blinded by the darkness for a second. A second is all it takes. At once, he hears the whipping of sound of arrows sailing through the air and the screams of the Grimleal as their bodies crumple to the floor. Instinctively, before he can even catch himself, he is standing in front of Grima. There are no arrows loosed upon him.

By the time the last of the Grimleal lets out a dying breath, he can make out the figures at the end of the room.

“Father,” Lucina calls from across the room. Her voice is as hollow as the hall, as yearning as the wind through the empty city.

“Have you really chosen the Fell Dragon’s side?” Sumia asks. Her voice is quiet, non-insinuating, but he can hear how each word pains her.

“No, it’s not like that,” Chrom says, but he is not sure how to explain such things. He has never been good with words.

Lucian stands before him, the Falchion trembling at her side. Like her father, she has never been reasonable.

“Father, whatever spell you’re under, you need to break through it. Step away. We need to end this.” The Falchion catches the light, glinting a pure, non-violet white, and it is blinding to look at. Idly, he thinks, idealism is blinding to look at he realizes.

“No, Lucina, I’m not under some spell. This is the real me.”

The whole time, Grima has been quiet, pensive, waiting. He can feel him at his back, his breath not betraying the slightest hesitation.

He can see the way Lucina hesitates, as if she is not quite sure what to do. She holds the Falchion in front of her, then at her side, her expression filled with consternation. She has always been a good girl, Chrom thinks, she has always seen the hope in his failure, the light in the end of days.

He will need to choose his words carefully. He is walking out of here with Grima and Lucina both. He will make them see the world he sees, where the two can coexist. It is the first time he realizes it is not him who was diametrically opposed to the Fell dragon, but his daughter. “Lucina,” he says, “this man, he is not just the Fell dragon, he is Robin.”

“Father…,” Lucina’s voice is faltering, even as she grips the Falchion tighter.

“Anyone can change, Lucina,” he reasons. He will make her see. He will make them all see: the light and the end of this grim world.

“I’m sorry, Father.” She dashes forward. Her aim is Grima, but Chrom’s wrist twitches, and before he knows it, the two Falchions interlock. There is clang of steel and the room is eerily silent. Lucina’s eyes widen, as if she cannot believe her father would take up arms against her knowingly, as if she cannot believe he would knowingly defend an embodiment of evil.

That is when Chrom realizes he has never been the hero of this story. It has always been Lucina, Lucina who has lived longer, who has seen more, who has traversed time and space to vanquish evil. In comparison, Chrom feels like a fraud. He is righteous and good, but he will never be stronger and faster.

She parries his sword, and then slides it back to her side and thrusts again.

From somewhere, Thoron is thrust open. Lucina takes the lightning with terrible, heart rending screams. The Falchion clatters on the ground, abandoned, and deprived of its master.

Chrom stares back at Grima in disbelief. But he is not quick enough as he feels the Falchion slide from his grip and into Lucina’s.

“You mustn’t,” he urges.

But it is too late. Grima and Lucina are locked in a deadly duel, exchanging blows that sizzle and slice.

He is pushed by one of them—he is not sure which—to the sidelines. Lucina uses every opportunity to deliver a deadly blow, but Grima is quick on his feet. He dodges her blows, singeing her with lightning bolts. Still, every so often, he is not quick enough, and the Falchion grazes his coat, his legs, his cheek.

They are evenly matched, and Chrom notices that the both of them are smiling, smiling while exchanging blows, smiling while taking hits and biting back screams. It is a long elegant dance, beautiful and deadly, the beginning and the end.

Grima groans and staggers back. In that moment, Chrom sees many possible futures, and how they have all melded into one.

In that moment, Lucina steps back, breathing hard, her hair plastered to her face. She will never be like her aunt, Emmeryn, regal and pious, holding the fate of her people as she embraced the air.

She won’t be like her aunt Lissa either, sunshine and practicality, a princess who wears rags so that others won’t starve.

She won’t even be like her mother, kindness and light, a soothing voice in the darkness.

What she will be is Exalt, the rare breed of Hero King that has been passed down their bloodline for generations. She will be toughness and steel, unrelenting strength in the face of evil, the firmament of order and righteousness.

Chrom had thought he was the hero. He had been the foolhardy one, always rushing into danger because he was steeped in stories of heroes rushing into battle for as long as he could remember. He had been the one to pick up the sword, to form a motley crew of knights and common folk against brigands because heroes did not wait for evil to come to them. He thought heroes were supposed to protect the princess from the dragon, he thought heroes were supposed to be contented in their victories, sublime in their triumph of good over evil.

But why now, why does it hurt?

There’s a sickening slick sound as Lucina pulls out the Falchion. It comes back stained in a surprisingly bright red. It is the red of strawberries in the meadow on a summer day, the breeze gently brushing his cheek like the caress of a lover. It drips to the ground, turning to rust, like rust colored eyes in the glow of candlelight, poring over rust colored maps in the rust colored light of dawn. And it grows like the blood on Grima’s abdomen, the black sheen of Sable as it bounces to the floor with a too loud  _thock, thock, thock_.

In the stories he had heard, heroes never surrendered. They stood tall against the flurry of swords and sorcery. They did not admit defeat, not even when facing the cruelest evils. And yet, Chrom can remember the slick sound of mud as it sucked in his boots, he can remember the grief of Emm’s sacrifice, and the cowardliness of his retreat.

In the stories he heard, heroes never sided with evil. They never laid down their swords and knelt by evil’s side. They never held evil in their arms and shuddered peacefully, the entirety of everything else coalescing into one gasping breath.

Grima gasps. Blood trickles from his lip.

He is saying something that Chrom can’t hear.

The world is going by too fast. There is a ringing far away, getting louder.

And he realizes, Lucina is the hero here.

Robin’s body falls to the floor and the magenta light turns bright scarlet and then blinks out completely.

Chrom has to close his eyes.

He realizes he is not the hero of this story, and never has been.

* * *

The Shepherds forgive him, of course. Grima’s curse, they call it. There is nothing to forgive, because he was the victim here.

Not the hero, he thinks.

It seems funny to Chrom that the last funeral pyre in Plegia should hold the Fell Dragon’s body. It flickers, a fluttering red. Even still, the Shepherds have tears in their eyes. For Robin, he knows. They remember Robin, not Grima, and it pains him now more than ever.

He will never tell them they were one and the same.

They return to Ylisse and rebuild a civilization. The older Lucina disappears into sunshine and light, happy, and the younger Lucina is cradled in her father’s arms in a broken castle, gurgling laughter and promise.

It is not the end Chrom wanted. It is not the one he had planned. But wasn’t that why he had always had a tactician by his side? To plan things for him.

  
-

 

-

 

-

The darkness is a lonely companion. Grima has known it well throughout the eons. It is his greatest comfort and the source of his deepest loathing.

Years pass. Decades. Time is insignificant to him, and yet it stretches onward.

It is the forty-ninth year when he finally sees something in the distance. A shadow of a shadow. But he follows it, steps heavy and hesitant, and the black turns to blue and the loneliness turns to warmth.

“Chrom!” Grima gasps, because that is who stands before him. Chrom, the Ylissian Exalt, the branded one, the Falchion’s wielder.

He is here… he is here… _why is he here?_

Grima staggers forward. It should be impossible. They had sealed him in darkness. Darkness is not the place heroes go.

“Robin,” Chrom answers.

Then he punches him in the shoulder. It is painful, even though he shouldn't feel pain here.

“Why didn’t you do something?” It does not take much to guess that Chrom is talking about that day in the throne room, his latest iteration of defeat. “You could have told them you changed. You could have… _we_ could have...” His fist starts to shake and Grima finds it difficult to hold back a smile.

“It would not have done anything, Chrom,” Grima says. “A fell god is a fell god and a monster is always a monster. Some things do not change.”

“You did.” Chrom looks at him. The look in his eyes is so earnest that Grima feels something inside of him flutter, a painful ache as light and soft as a butterfly’s wing.

Grima has to turn away from that look. The darkness, nothingness, is more preferable.

“No,” he says.

“You did,” Chrom says, “you changed.”

“I didn’t.” Grima tries to turn but Chrom grabs his face. It is a feeling so gentle that Grima can’t help but feel that _thing_ again, rising in his chest, a multitude of soft and airy things rising to the surface.

“You did,” Chrom says and this time he can’t pull away, “when you spared Valm, when you let me live, when you let Lucina…” His voice trails off.

It has been many years for Chrom from that day, but for Grima, it feels like it’s just been a moment.

“I thought about it all this time,” Chrom continues. “Why you would just take that sword. Why, when you had a piece of the fire emblem and the whole world kneeling at your feet? Why would you take a sword knowing all that?” Chrom looks down, his eyes sad. “I knew it was you, Robin. You were still planning, all this time.”

“I…” he wants to correct Chrom. He is not Robin. He has never been Robin. Robin is not real, he wants to say.

He _is_ Grima.

But perhaps…

There is a too long silence. When Chrom finally responds, it is with a breath of relief. 

“What did you say that time?” Chrom asks. "When Lucina..."

Grima isn't sure if he should respond, but there is nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide. Chrom will follow him into the darkness, into the very secrets of his soul. 

“The same thing you said to me,” he says, all truth and no lies. “It’s not your fault.”

Chrom smiles.

He’d burn the world for that smile, but he’d save it, too.

Perhaps…

“Even so, can I spend the next nine-hundred years making it up to you?”

He pulls Chrom to him, feels the warmth of his chest, feels that shuddering heartbeat that makes him feel more than himself.

“Yes,” Robin says.

Perhaps he would not mind being reborn as human next time,

With Chrom by his side…

The both of them…

Perhaps...

Together…

* * *

One thousand years later, the Fell Dragon does not rise again.

But there is a boy who falls asleep in a field somewhere, and another boy who wakes him on the premise of some grand adventure, if only he’d raise himself up off the ground and join him.

 

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Sorry for the wait! I can't resist happy endings, even though I prefer dreadful angst! 
> 
> Perhaps I'll see you in the arena? My username is Lele.


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